


Flotsam and Jetsam

by bunn



Series: Undying Lands [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amanyar and Umanyar, Beleriand, Burning of the Ships at Losgar, Elven generation gaps, Elven languages and cultures, First Age, Fourth Age, Gen, Men Bonding Over Fish, Reconciliation, The Falathrim, The Noldor, The Problem of the Noldor Supply Chain, Tol Eressëa, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: Encounters between two elves: Círdan of the Eglath, the Forsaken People of the Falas, and Fëanor, whose house was known as the Dispossessed. Once they met before the Rising of the Sun, and then again, long afterwards upon the pearly shores of the Lonely Isle in the Uttermost West, after both had passed out of the history of Middle-earth and into legend.
Relationships: Círdan & Fëanor, Círdan | Nowë/Írimë | Lalwen
Series: Undying Lands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1340299
Comments: 47
Kudos: 100
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	1. The Coming of the Noldor into Middle-earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lferion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/gifts).



> Because this story starts before the Rising of the Sun, some characters are described using names they used during that period.  
> Yssion is one of the Sindarin names of the being more often known as Ossë, and Fanuilos is a Sindarin title for Varda, or Elbereth.  
> Fëanáro = Fëanor  
> Tyelkormo=Celegorm  
> Maitimo=Maedhros

The dark sea, hushing gently on the shingle shore of Eglarest, reflected in fractured patterns the mighty glory of the stars. Círdan stood upon the shore and looked out into the dark West, but half his attention was behind him, listening for the sound of marching feet, the harsh war-cries and the drums of the armies of Angband. 

No sign of them yet, but he knew they were coming. 

There was no light to be seen in the distant west, only starlight on the sea. 

“You said to me; wait,” he said quietly, to the endless waves. “You told me that I had a task to do here upon this shore, and I must give up my kin and the hope of Light in the West to do it. Now the Shadow is coming, and we are too few. Help me now, or I and my people will die here and there will be nothing left upon this shore but grief and bitter memories.” 

The Sea made no answer. 

“Yssion, my friend!” Círdan said unhappily. “Have you no help to offer us?” 

The dark star-shadows of the ships that they had built with Yssion’s aid dipped gently at anchor in the bay, but there was no answer in words at all. No storm of wind and waves to strike against the enemy, no great enchantment to stand as a mighty defence against the orcs, their reaching hands, their iron chains and whips to drive their captives North. 

Perhaps that was all the aid he would be given. The ships would probably accommodate most of the Elves of the Falas, if in no great comfort. He had been commanded not to sail West...perhaps if they sailed down the coast, far into the South, they might find a place to dwell beyond the reach even of Morgoth. At least, out of his reach for a while, though his arm grew ever longer...

There were still refugees coming into the Falas, Elves of the shadowed mountains, the silver rivers and the willow-meads of Beleriand, fleeing from the armies that came from Angband with fire and sword. 

If Círdan took his people and sailed away, anyone he left behind would be caught between the Shadow and the shore. And there was nothing to prevent the Shadow from following them.

A small cool wind was blowing from behind him now, bringing the faintest rumour of a distant sound. Drums.

“ _Forsaken_ ,” Círdan said bitterly to the quiet sea. It felt like a blasphemy. He turned his back on it, and went to give orders for the defense of his cities. 

*****

The drums were louder now, and in the distance, among the black forms of sleeping trees, red flames were flickering. Somewhere away behind him, silent, fearful elves were being ferried out to the ships waiting at anchor.

He wiped his forehead, spattered with dark blood, and gratefully accepted a drink of cool water from the water-carrier, a woman with worried eyes, carrying a leather water-bottle and wearing an air of determination. 

“We must turn the next attack back,” he said grimly to those who stood with him. He could see the flames glittering reflected in their eyes. “We need to kill enough of them that they will think twice about following, before we can make a run for it.”

“If we can make it to the ships,” one of them answered, wide strained eyes peering into the gloom. 

“If we can make it to the ships,” Círdan agreed, returning the cup and picking up his bow. 

And then, somewhere to the north of them, a clear silver call, a merry string of laughing notes that rang against the grumbling drums of the orcs like starlight against shadow. 

“That’s no orc-horn,” Camgir said, astonished. “Who...?” 

Círdan shook his head. The laughing call of the horn had been joined by others, many others, calling to one another out there in the far distance, a fierce hunting music that was filled with joy. Their foes could hear it, too. There was shouting and the clash of arms in the distance, and the sound of many heavy-booted feet running, and further away, the hoofbeats of horses galloping wildly through the night. 

“Doriath?” someone said, her face alight with sudden hope. 

Círdan shook his head, baffled. “Doriath is as hard-pressed as we are. It might be a trick, to lure us inland.” He raised his voice so the other defenders of Eglarest could hear. “Hold! Hold the line!” 

And they held the line, quietly listening in the darkness under stars, baffled by the silence that now spread ahead of them, as if the Shadow had never come to the Falas at all. 

*****

The stars wheeled above, the blessing of the Lady Fanuilos shining sharp and bright against the heavens, and the orcs did not return. 

And then, the sound of hooves, and the clear horn blowing, a greeting this time, and Círdan was hurriedly summoned from the shore to meet with a company of elves who were tall and strong, and clad in armour that glinted and shimmered in the light from the the great lamps they bore. 

Their leader was smiling, his fair hair caught back, his eyes gleaming. On his shoulder, a great brooch gleamed, set with dark stones that made the form of a star, and a great golden hound was by his side. He called out words that were clearly a greeting of some kind, but they gleamed and slipped past the ear like fish in a stream, shining and elusive. 

“You don’t seem like one of the usual deceits,” Círdan told him, looking carefully from face to face for signs of hidden evil. “But how can I know? Where did you come from?” 

The bright face on the horse high above him frowned in concentration, then the commander leaped down lightly to stand facing Círdan. Círdan was tall among his people, and he knew them all. It was odd to be facing a stranger who even at ground level might have a thumb’s breadth advantage of him. 

The stranger bowed gracefully, and put a hand to his chest. “Tyelkormo,” he said, slowly and clearly, and then held a hand out to Círdan enquiringly. As his hand moved, the shining metal rings on his wrist jingled as if he was decked with bells. 

“Círdan,” Círdan told him, still searching the other’s face suspiciously for signs of the Enemy. He did not bow back, or take the outstretched hand, but there was something... something about the eyes that was familiar. 

After a moment, Tyelkormo withdrew his hand and instead made a circling motion. “Á enqueta nin mekin, Kírdan Aráto?”

Círdan regarded him warily. Still, he had not attacked, and the other people with him seemed safe, at least for now: they were sitting back in their saddles, chattering in their incomprehensible language. There was no sign of orcs that he could see. “Where did you come from, and what do you want?” he asked, speaking more slowly and carefully this time. 

*****

They said they had come out of the West, he discovered, once they had spent some time exchanging words like gifts at a festival, their meaning slowly becoming clearer. Tyelkormo’s words shifted with astonishing speed into more familiar ones, and soon they were able to have a full conversation, and at least half of Círdan had begun to believe this might be no trick of the Shadow, but something he had almost given up hope would come; help from beyond the Sea. 

Tyelkormo was the grandson of Finwë. Finwë, who had gone away long ago, his eyes shining with the light in the West, with all his people behind him. Míriel, who had walked beside him on the long road West. Círdan had thought to travel soon after, and yet here he was, still dwelling by the shore that they had left behind, and to which now their son and grandsons had returned. 

“We mean to... to strike? to hit back on the Enemy for Grandfather’s murder,” Tyelkormo told him, fiercely.

“You think that can be done?” Círdan asked him, deliberately not showing his scepticism. “The Shadow is strong in this land, and has many servants.” 

“It can be done,” Tyelkormo said, and laughed merrily, full of confidence. But then, if the Shadow had been interfering with his mind, he would be. “Our... _aranya?_... my father is strong in will. You should come and meet him. Then you’ll understand. We want to know all about these lands. We hope you can help us.” 

He was an engaging youth, and Círdan found he was particularly reluctant to think of this pleasant young elf, who had ridden so bravely into battle in the east, falling into the Shadow and learning fear the hard way. Unless, of course, this was all a lie, and Tyelkormo had been to Angband already...

He beckoned to a couple of the chief people of Eglarest who happened to be nearby. “I am going out to meet with this new-come king and find out what I can. It would be best to keep double watches while I am away, I’d say.” 

They nodded seriously. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to go inland?” Camgir asked him doubtfully, thumbs in his belt. “How far have those orcs gone, anyway?”

“Orcs aren’t coming back,” Tyelkormo told him with a grin. “Few got away. Those that did left their swords and ran off...” he made a highly realistic impression of an orc shrieking in panic while looking fearfully over his shoulder that brought an unexpected huff of laughter from many of the listening Elves. 

But not Camgir. “I don’t believe it,” he said. His face was full of suspicion in the mingled light: the golden light of the lamps that they had brought out from Eglarest to light the meeting-place, and the sharp clear blue-white of the lamps throwing coloured shadows across his face. “Círdan, I’m not sure about any of this.” 

“I take you to the place so you can count the orcs that are dead, “ Tyelkormo told him with an easy grin. “But I’m not so sure I can find my way back there. We don’t know this country. It has been a long time since the Noldor went across the Sea.” 

“It has,” Círdan said. He looked around at the assembled Noldor, then glanced back at Camgir. “I’ll risk it. After all, Tyelkormo is of the kin of Finwë, who was a dear friend of Elu Thingol, and of his brother Olu who went across the Sea long ago. I can trust him.”

The faintest moment of unease flickered across Tyelkormo’s smiling face at that, the first time he had shown any sign of not being exactly who he said he was. Círdan exchanged a wordless thought with his kinsman Camgir. _Perhaps. I’ll be careful. But we need to know more. Send word to Elu at once._

*****

Even with Círdan’s knowledge of the woods and hills of Beleriand to guide them, it took them some time to find their way back into the North to the place where Tyelkormo had left the main Noldor force. 

As they travelled, Círdan watched the Noldor, alert for signs of deceit. He picked up a little of their language as they went, too, though more slowly than Tyelkormo learned Círdan’s own tongue. After a while, he discovered that Tyelkormo had been a friend of Oromë in Valinor, and the Hunter had given him his great hound. Círdan eyed the dog respectfully. He remembered Oromë from his earliest years, and was inclined to be impressed by the connection. But though Tyelkormo did not say so in so many words, something about his expression gave Círdan the impression that the friendship had waned. 

Still, it was fascinating to hear tales of Aman, of the small details of how life had been in the peace and light of the Trees of Valinor, where Tyelkormo had ridden out to hunt with Oromë, while his father and brothers had visited the halls of Aulë. 

If things had gone only a little differently, Círdan might have walked those shining fields, might have walked the jewelled shores of Alqualondë, and ridden up from the starry shores to visit the Treelit cities of Tirion and Valimar. Though perhaps then he would not have been the friend of Yssion, who, at least as far as these Noldor knew, was not well known in Valinor. 

At last, they found the place where the Noldor had been encamped when Tyelkormo had led his forces out. But the Noldor and their king were no longer there, and they had left little sign of their passing on the rough and rocky ground, at least to Círdan’s eyes. Tyelkormo’s great hound, nose to the ground, led them on and on, until they came at last to the Land of Mists and the great dark lake that lay there, reflecting the stars. 

Beside it now, sparkling with many lights as if the fear of attracting the attention of the legions of Shadow were not worth mentioning, were great tents of some material that rippled and shone like silver, and around them were elves in armour and tall horses grazing.

But more obvious to Círdan even than the light was the feeling of fury that hung across the camp ahead, an ominous tension, as if a storm was about to break. He could feel it on his tongue, like the taste of iron. 

“Here they are at last!” Tyelkormo exclaimed, and Círdan could see the anger that lay banked like stormclouds behind his thought rise in answer. “Come and meet my father, Círdan.”

At the centre of the storm were two people. Círdan could see it at once, as soon as Tyelkormo brought him to the tent where they were leaning together over maps: one with hair that was raven-black, and the other, taller with hair a deep chestnut red. 

Both of them were wearing glittering armour, and they both leaped up as Tyelkormo appeared. There was a swift exchange of rapid passionate Quenya that was beyond Círdan’s ability to entirely understand, but it was fairly clear that Tyelkormo was being reproved for something, and defending himself. He gestured with a dismissive twist towards the taller elf, and threw out the other dramatically towards Círdan. 

The words might be incomprehensible, but the message was clear all the same; 

_Where have you been? Why were you gone so long?_

_He told me to go and find potential allies! And here is one!_

“Stars shine on the path that brings us together,” Círdan interrupted in his slow awkward Quenya, since the exchange seemed to be becoming increasingly heated. They abruptly cut off their debate and turned to him as one. 

Tyelkormo bowed his head, and spoke courteously in slow, simple Quenya, introducing the taller elf as Maitimo, his eldest brother. The other was Curufinwë Fëanáro himself. Círdan recognised the likeness to his father at once, though this Fëanáro looked more formidable than Finwë had ever been. Formidable, and exhausted too, there was something about the line of his shoulders that said it was a long time since he had slept, though his eyes blazed with a furious light. 

“Círdan! That is a name I recognise from my father’s tales,” Fëanor said. At least on the surface he was welcoming, speaking fluently in Sindarin with the distinctive accent of the northern lands. Círdan instinctively winced at the sound of it: this was the voice that pleaded from the shadows, calling rescuers into an ambush, the voice of the refugee who must be watched, lest they turn on their friends. 

But that might be coincidence. The Noldor had travelled through the north: of course they would have learned the language as it was spoken there. Not all the Sindar of the north had fallen under the shadow.

Fëanáro was smiling brilliantly at Círdan. Though... was there something a little forced about it? “You were a friend of my father’s, long ago?” he asked. 

“I knew your father, yes,” Círdan agreed. “Your mother Míriel too.” Fëanáro’s eyes widened at that, and a faint smile came to his tired face. Círdan went on “Tyelkormo has told me Míriel is dead, and that the Shadow struck at the Trees of Light and killed your father, even in the uttermost West. I was sorry to hear it. I hoped that your parents and all my western kin were all safe beyond the Sea.” 

Fëanáro’s blazing eyes met his, unblinking, but Maitimo looked down unhappily. “We all grieve for Grandfather a great deal,” he said quietly. 

“And we _will_ have revenge for his death upon his murderer, the Dark Foe of the World.” Fëanáro agreed, and it was hard to see any other possibility could exist, at least while he was speaking. But Círdan was older far than Fëanáro, and he too had lived closely in friendship with the Ainur. He had learned to make his own way. 

“Our enemy has many servants and many armies. His land is a mighty fortress with iron gates,” Círdan pointed out, trying to speak kindly. All of these fierce and passionate young people were strung as tight as a mooring rope on an incoming tide, and marked with grief and loss beside. “You will not find it easy to reach him, let alone to overcome him. If that were a simple matter, we who dwell on the Hither Shore would have seen to it long ago.” 

Fëanáro lost the dawning smile and glared at him. The air inside the tent thickened with his grief and fury, so that Círdan almost struggled to catch his breath. 

“We feared that might be so,” Maitimo said swiftly, “We are resolute, nonetheless. And so we ask your counsel, and any aid that you can give us, Círdan, friend of Finwë and of Míriel.” 

Cirdan was almost sure, by now, that they were not sent by the Shadow to trick him, though there was clearly something more here than met the eye. But if they were not a deceit of the Shadow, if they had really come willingly out of the West, or even been sent by the Valar... Círdan had prayed for aid, and the Noldor had appeared. 

“Well then. I’ll help you if I can,” he said. “But I’ll be honest with you from the start, and hope you’ll do the same for me: it’s not so much for Finwë’s sake or Míriel’s as because you came when we needed you.”

Fëanáro and his eldest son exchanged glances, and then Fëanáro nodded. 

Círdan pulled up a spare stool and sat down. “The first thing you need to know,” he said, “Is that you must be cautious about trusting _anyone_.” 

Rather to his surprise, Fëanáro laughed sharply, and the feeling like a storm on the horizon receded, as if the wind had changed. “I think you and I may get along, Círdan,” he said. “But if that’s the case, how can we trust what you tell us?”

Círdan shrugged. “You can’t. Both on general principle, and more practically: this isn’t my land, and if I wanted to tell you all about it, I couldn’t. My people live on the coast. But what I can tell you is that the people of this land have lived for a long time dangerously close to the Hells of Iron. Many of them have been carried off into the shadows; the orcs have been roaming here for a long time. Sometimes they escape, or return, at any rate, but none of them do so unchanged. If they are only weak and fearful, that’s hard enough. But some of them will be entirely under the spell of our enemy. Those are the ones who will wait for you to turn your back and then strike, even though you have shown them only kindness. Beware of letting them stay within your gates.” 

“So far we have found the Sindar of these lands very helpful,” Maitimo said frowning. “Are the orcs and the Dark Foe of All the World not enemies enough, that we should go looking for more among our friends?”

“I wish they were,” Círdan told him candidly. “It’s easier to face the enemy without.”

Fëanáro gave a single harsh laugh, but did not explain himself. His son glanced at him, and said nothing. 

Círdan shrugged. “Believe me or don’t. You’ll find out sooner or later for yourselves.” 

“And better to find out without a knife in our backs, you’d say?” Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “But you said yourself: these are not your lands, or your people. How then can you advise us against them?”

“That’s fair,” Círdan admitted. “All I can tell you is that in Doriath where Elwë, who was Finwë’s friend, is king, and in the Falas, we have learned to be cautious when it comes to voices out of the North.” 

Fëanáro smiled, a humourless, perilous smile that showed his teeth. “I am not well known for my caution, Círdan. Now, we know that the stronghold of the Foe of the World is somewhere to our east, across the mountains. Do you know how far?”

******

Later, once Fëanor and Maitimo had wrung all the information that Cirdan was willing or able to give from him, he was given a meal of unfamiliar food and drink. Little of it was to his liking. He ate as little as was possible in courtesy, while talking with Tyelkormo and some of his younger brothers, until a messenger called them away to a conference with their father. 

Cirdan wandered a little away from the tents, down to the still shores of the lake. They had set out lamps down to the shore, and he kept near them, wary of what might hide in the shadows of this dangerous northern land. Behind him, the sounds of the Noldor camp: the stamping of horses, the jingling of mail, and the sound of voices singing songs he did not know. Before him, a faint mist lay on the dark water, and through it twinkled faintly the reflections of the stars. A fish leapt, flashing silver for a moment in the lamplight. 

Círdan smiled, feeling very much more at home. He pulled out a line, hook and weight from an inner pocket, baited it with a morsel of the odd Noldor food, cast, and pulled it in, humming gently to himself, a small quiet spell to coax the fish to take the bait. 

Sometime later, he had three fine fat perch, had borrowed a flame and some kindling, and had a flat stone heating nicely, ready to cook them, when he felt rather than saw someone looming over him. He looked up — why were these Noldor all so very tall? — and saw that it was Fëanáro himself. 

He was probably expected to leap to his feet before the King. But he had never done that for Elu Thingol, and he certainly was not going to do it for this sad angry boy of Finwë’s. He patted the ground. “I have enough fish to share, if you’d care to join me,” he said. 

Fëanáro regarded him for a moment through narrowed eyes, then sat down, neatly crosslegged.

“We shall move on very soon,” he said. “My scouts have returned; we have a way down from the mountains and across the fens. I came to ask you...”

“I see,” Círdan interrupted, and Fëanáro’s dark brows flew up. Círdan placidly ignored that, carefully scraping the cooked fish from the smooth stone with his knife and a willow-skewer from his pack. “Now, you have asked me a great number of questions, and so I hope you won’t mind if I ask one of you. What are you Noldor doing here, really?”

“Seeking revenge for my father, and the return of the works of my heart, that the Foe of the World has stolen from me,” Fëanáro answered with a frown. “Tyelkormo told you that.” 

“He did. But there’s the mystery: when all my kin went away across the Sea, there was no following them, and not one of them has ever returned, till now. Is it really that nobody has ever desired to return across the Sea, until revenge brought you here? Or is there something more going on?” 

Fëanáro regarded him with some suspicion. Círdan held out the perch on its skewer until he took it and scraped off another for himself. “We used to eat like this often, on the Great Journey to the Sea,” Círdan remarked. “A simple dish, no doubt, by the standards of Valinor, but I have a soft spot for it.”

Fëanáro took an impatient bite. “It’s good. I have eaten like this too, journeying in Aman far beyond the light of the Trees.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Fëanáro nodded slowly. “Very well then. It’s no secret. I swore that we would retake that which is my own from our enemy, I, and my sons. I shall say nothing of the Valar, for they would not aid us.”

Círdan blinked. “So you came without their blessing... and against their will?” Troubled, he took a bite of fish and chewed slowly. 

Fëanáro raised his head proudly. “We did not need their blessing — or their consent. My father and mother chose to cross the Sea. I chose to return, and none shall stand in my way.”

“I see.” 

“You disapprove?” Fëanáro demanded sharply, and behind the flat words was that whirlpool of furious anger and grief building again. 

Círdan smiled gently. “Your timing was very much in my favour. I would not be sorry to see the Hunter with the fire flashing from his horse’s hooves to hunt the orcs to their lairs, but I’ll settle for Tyelkormo.”

“Good,” Fëanáro said. He demolished the fish in a few bites. “I came to ask that your people help us with supplies. Our provisions are limited, and we cannot be delayed. It’s taken us far too long to get this far.” 

“We are not a rich people,” Círdan said reflectively. “But I suppose we would be poorer yet without you. I’ll see what we can do.” 

“Good,” Fëanáro said, leaping to his feet, “I’ll send Tyelkormo to you with a list. Perhaps some time ahead, once our enemy is fallen, we shall speak again with more leisure — and I shall show you how we caught fish in Aman.” And with a swirl of his cloak he was gone, striding off at a furious pace.


	2. Forsaken and Dispossessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out, and much later, there is a second meeting.

# First Age

A shining day in autumn, the westering sun spreading a glow through the mist and foam that was flung up by the joyful restless sea. Tattered storm-grey clouds rushed across a pale sky, and the sound of the waves thundered through Eglarest. Somewhere out there, Yssion was making sport with waves that would overwhelm any ship that Círdan and his people could yet build. 

Outside the new white walls of Eglarest, Finrod Felagund’s horse shook its long white mane streaming in the breeze, sending the joyful sound of small bells tinkling to Círdan’s ears. Finrod was gold and silver in the sunlight; all Vanyar and Teleri to look at. Beside him, his captain Edrahil on a black horse that gleamed like polished oak was like a Noldorin shadow of his lord. 

“Should we let them in?” 

“Felagund’s Elu’s kinsman,” Círdan said, deeply unhappy. “And mine, for that matter. Elu says there’s no blood on his hands.”

“I don’t like it,” Camgir said, glaring at the golden head that shone in the sunshine far below. 

“Nor do I. But we can hardly keep them out. Open the gate. I’ll talk to them.”

*****

It was far from Finrod Felagund’s first visit to Eglarest, of course. He had visited many times as a friend and kinsman of Thingol’s, had planned the new walls and gates and helped to build them. 

They had not known, then, that he was hiding anything. Finrod had come to Eglarest and Brithombar as a friend, had talked of ships and towns and walls, of differing traditions on the West and East sides of the Great Sea. Not once had he mentioned that Fëanor and his sons, Finrod’s friends and allies, had attacked their kinsmen across the Sea, had stolen their treasured ships and burned them upon the shore at Losgar. 

Finrod read Círdan’s feelings on his face at once, as he rode in through the gate and dismounted in the market-place. 

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Círdan. There was no way that I could tell you without betraying Maedhros and all the rest of them. The peace was as fragile as the first winter ice, in those days. Maedhros gave up the crown — you probably don’t realise how much that meant to them — and in return, we forgave them.”

Círdan’s hands were curled into fists. “ _You_ forgave them,” he said quietly. “You had no right to forgive them on our behalf.” He usually spoke Sindarin with Finrod anyway, but for a moment he wished that Finrod had greeted him in Quenya, so he could refuse to listen to it. 

Edrahil said quietly but firmly, “Nor did we have any right to break the High King’s peace by telling you.”

A cart rattled by, loaded with baskets and drawn by a donkey. They stepped to one side to make room. 

““I swore oaths of friendship with the Noldor at Mereth Aderthad,” Círdan said pointedly. “Oaths of friendship to kinslayers and thieves, without knowing that was what they were.”

Finrod made a pained face. “I am sorry, Cirdan. It seemed at the time to be the least-bad option on a very short list of choices, to keep things quiet.”

“Those ships!” Círdan exclaimed. “To burn them as if they were driftwood! Ships that could cross the deeps of the wide Sea with a novice crew, and beach safely on the other side! If we only had ships like that...” he caught himself, and stopped. It was not the point, that if they had ships like that, Olu could have come to help them himself. It was not the point, that with ships like that, Círdan’s people could have come and gone across the Sea, rather than being cut off from their kin, and left at the mercy of the orcs. If the Valar had not forbidden it... He thought of Yssion again, and wondered, as he had done so many times, why Yssion no longer came to the shores of the Falas. 

“You know,” Finrod said mildly, “I did have reason to mourn the ships myself. For one thing, one of them was my mother’s, and another my grandfather’s. For another, the lack of them meant the Grinding Ice was the only way to cross, and that was absolutely not my idea of a pleasant excursion.”

Círdan thought of the Ice, and winced. Olu could have crossed the Sea in comfort, if he had chosen to do so, to help his kin. The Valar would not have stopped him: they had not stopped the Noldor. Olu would not have needed to walk across the Ice. He could have sailed East to visit, to share news, and show Círdan how to build such craft for himself, but he had chosen to stay in safety. But then... Olu’s grandson was here, now. Finrod had come, though his mother and her kin had not. Seeing him here, standing beside Edrahil, there could be no question that Finrod was Noldor by choice, if not so much by blood. Yet a kinsman and a willing ally between the Havens and Angband: that was a treasure worth keeping. 

“Then when we arrived in Middle-earth, we discovered we had a choice: one enemy or two,” Edrahil said practically. “I don’t like what they did, but would you rather have them beside you to face the Enemy, or be facing them in battle? Not that it was my choice, but I’d rather the House of Fëanor were allies.” Finrod grinned at him. 

Círdan remembered Celegorm riding bloodstained through the starlight. “I’d rather neither.” Though... was that really true? Perhaps in a world where Olu had returned to help his brother, but that was not the world they lived in. Celegorm was certainly greatly preferable to any orc. He told himself that Olu could not have known what was happening across the Sea, but could not quite make himself believe it. Olu had chosen not to know. 

But that was another matter. “Your mother’s ship was taken too?”

Finrod shrugged. “There seems very little point in holding a grudge about it at this point. Still, if you require a representative of the Noldor to shout at for a while, I’m happy to volunteer. I’ve already had it in the neck from great-uncle Elu at some length, I can’t imagine you’re fiercer than he is.” 

Círdan laughed. “I doubt it,” he said. “All right, all right. You lost more than I, and brought us a much-needed alliance. And I suppose I have to admit that without... Celegorm, without Fëanor, even, this town would not have stood long enough for you to come and bring us our fine new walls. I was angry, and I’ll thank you for your courtesy.” 

Finrod smiled brilliantly. “A pleasure. Or, perhaps, not a pleasure exactly, but after Elu made me feel approximately one thumbs-width tall about the whole thing, and Angrod yelled at him... well. It could have been worse.” 

“I can’t believe that Fëanor looked me in the eye and lied, and I didn’t see it.” Círdan said, remembering Fëanáro’s face, the firelight echoing the Treelight in his eyes.

Finrod’s golden eyebrows lifted. “Really? I’m surprised by that. Abrasive, uncle Fëanor was most certainly that. I was surprised when he turned thief, but I hadn’t thought him a liar.” 

“A liar by omission, at least.”

Finrod shifted uncomfortably, and Edrahil gave Círdan a thoughtful stare.

Círdan went on; “I spoke to him of my kin in Aman, and he said not a word. I wish I’d asked him where he got the ships. I thought... they had so many things I hadn’t seen before. I assumed they had built them.” He huffed out a breath in annoyance. “My own pride at work. If I had admitted that none of the ships I have built were ready to cross the deep ocean, and asked for their help in building ships that could, I would soon have seen they were not shipwrights.” 

Finrod smiled wryly. “You certainly would. The building of ships is one field that not one of the House of Fëanor, to my knowledge, has ever attempted to master.”

A small family of puffins came marching through, webbed feet lifting high and comical beaks bobbing. Edrahil’s tall horse shifted uneasily at the sight of them, and Edrahil lifted a hand to his mane to reassure him. 

“Come through to the stables,” Círdan said, making up his mind. “There’s been some talk about the Noldor here, since the news came through, but if you mention that your mother’s ship was burned... Well, everyone will see that quite differently.”

#  Fourth Age

There was starlight glittering on the dark waves, on the long pearly shores beyond the world, where Avallónë, the eastern harbour of the Lonely Isle, looked out towards fallen Númenor. Small lamps, golden and blue, shone from the buildings in the town and joined the stars glittering reflected in the water, and the fair voices of the Falathrim were singing along with the sound of the water hushing on the shore. 

Outside the town, a path led down into the wooded valley, shaped by a small swift stream that sang quietly down through the shadows to the inlet at its foot. The House of Írimë, a long building that seemed to swell out of the rocks beside the stream with the curve of a moving wave frozen in granite, was dark and quiet. The scent of the tough single white roses that grew along the stream mingled with the scent of the Sea. 

A movement between the trees and the shining water, the outline of a figure pulling herself from the water. Her long dark hair and naked body dripped with starlight. 

“Good evening, Lalwen,” Fëanor said from the shadows. 

Unhurriedly, she turned to face him. “Fëanor,” she said, untroubled. “Why are you here?” 

“Why should I not visit my sister?”

“Oh, I am a sister, now?” She shook her hair, sending sparkling droplets flying,and wrapped a sheet around herself, pale in the starlight. 

“Half-sister, then, if you prefer that.” 

Lalwen laughed, a sound of infectious merriment that reminded him, across death and years of conflict and suspicion, of her bright face as a child. “Fëanor, that was your idea from the start. I have better things to do with my time than to hold on to old grudges. I don’t think about you much at all.”

“Ah, I am wounded to the heart,” Fëanor told her drily.

“When I do think of you, it’s sometimes burning ships and leaving me to cross the Helcaraxë. But then I think of Balrogs. Not usually a comfort, but in this one case, they warm the memory of the Grinding Ice very nicely.”

“You find my death in flames a comfort?”

“Richly deserved, you must admit,” she said, and white teeth flashed in a grin. 

“Definitely a  _ half _ -sister.”

She laughed again. “Shall I call you High King and make my bow?” She pirouetted, and then bowed low, her long hair sweeping the sand. “Ah! Now I have sand in my hair. I blame you, o king.” 

“I shall sit here on a rock until you get tired of teasing me, then” he said, and sat. 

“Brothers exist to be teased,” Lalwen said firmly, shaking out her hair. 

“A task that you have certainly made your own.” 

“I saw two brothers die. Oddly enough, I wept for both of them, even you, you treacherous goose!”

“ _ Goose?”  _ Fëanor shook his head reprovingly, though quietly he was touched to hear it. “Your vocabulary is lacking. You’re out of practice.” 

“My brothers made me promise to be nice,” she admitted. “My  _ other  _ brothers. The more civilised ones.” 

“And now I wonder if you count ‘civilised’ a compliment or an insult. A compliment, probably, since you applied it to your favorite, Fingolfin.”

“A compliment, surely. There’s nothing civilised about a ship-thief. Why have you come here, Fëanor? I’m sure you didn’t come here only to be laughed at,” Lalwen said, folding the sheet into a loose robe. 

“No. I came to ask Círdan for a favour.”

“Spurned again!” Lalwen said, laughing. 

Fëanor shook his head. “I didn’t mean that! I owe you congratulations, I hear, and I would have brought many gifts, but I thought in the end you might prefer it if I came and asked you what gift I could give you. Privately, as your brother. But I have also come as a king. The gift — whatever you wish it to be — is from your brother, but the request for a favour is from the King, and as such, it cannot wait.” 

Lalwen’s eyebrows went up, surprised and considering. “That is as it should be,” she said after a moment. “For Fëanor to come to Círdan for a favour seems bold, but kings must be bold.” As Fingolfin and Fingon had been, the thought went unspoken, but was very clear. 

“You think he’s unlikely to want to help me?”

Lalwen smiled. “That depends what the favour is. When you... last met, you said nothing about Alqualondë to him, nor theft, nor burning ships, and he didn’t see through your lies. That hurt his pride.” She walked up the beach to the mouth of the stream, plucked a single white rose, and tucked it into her hair. “On the other hand, Círdan is notably forgiving to kinslayers, and not known to be picky about his allies. Also I think the Balrogs may fall in your favour; at least you fell facing our enemy.”

“You won’t speak on my behalf?” Fëanor suggested. 

“You  _ are _ bold!”

Fëanor laughed. “Famously so, I’m told. Have I passed the test?”

“You don’t seem angry,” she said, stepping forward and looking closely into his eyes for a moment before walking around him, inspecting him as if he were one of Nerdanel’s figures. 

He turned to face her. “On the contrary, I’m angry constantly, and about a great range of matters of all kinds. With Eru, with the Valar, with myself. But not, just now, with you, or with Círdan.”

She shrugged at last, and stepped back. “Let’s go up to the house.”

“He’s there? I saw no lights.” 

“He remembers a time when the stars were all the light there was. Sometimes we don’t use lamps, at the dark of the Moon, when Círdan is in a mood to watch the stars.” 

******

They found Círdan high on the roof of the house, where a kind of platform had been built, thrusting out eastwards like the deck of a ship towards the starlit sea. High above the waves still hushing gently over the pebbles, Círdan and a small dimly-glowing brazier were keeping one another company. 

Fëanor stopped for a moment as he came up the steps, seeing Círdan standing silently under the stars. He was old now, so very old. He had not been young when Fëanor had met him in the long past, before ever the Sun had risen, when Beleriand lay sleeping in the starlight before the morning of the world. But now, his beard was long and grey, and his thought was on the far distance, as if he could see lands and peoples that were gone and forgotten by all but him. 

Fëanor gave him a respectful nod, and Lalwen slipped an arm around his shoulder, a familiar greeting. Cirdan seemed to come slowly back from a land far away. 

“A long time since I last saw your face, Fëanor Finwë’s son,” he said at last. 

“It has been. I owe you congratulations on your marriage to my sister,” Fëanor said. 

“And he wants a favour,” Lalwen added.

“A favour? Last time I saw you, Fëanor, you ate my fish, and asked for supplies. But that was a long time ago.”

“It was. And I did not say that I had fought your kinsmen, taken their ships and burned them on the shore at Losgar. But I shall not apologise for that: if I had told you, what good would it have done? It would only have strengthened our Enemy.” 

Lalwen made an exasperated noise. “I hate it when you’re right,” she said. 

Círdan considered this. At last he said, “I disagree. I would then have known what I was facing. I prefer to know which way the wind is blowing, and where the storm will come from. But I have been beset with storms. Morgoth, the Noldor... and my own kin and the Valar too. I have sent too many ships to disaster, begging for aid... I’ve never been one to hold grudges.” 

“I have,” Fëanor said, “But I can’t recommend it as a strategy.”

Círdan smiled, a long slow smile with a surprising sweetness to it. “What is this favour?”

“Círdan, I need to build a fleet.” 

“A fleet?” 

“Yes. I intend to leave Aman with any of the Noldor who will follow me. I have made mistakes in my time, but I still believe that the Elves need a place that is not under the hand of the Valar, and I intend to bring the Noldor to a land of their own. And anyone else who chooses to come.” 

“I’ve heard a little about that, lately,” Círdan nodded. “I hear the Valar have agreed to it.”

Fëanor grimaced. “They like to think they never did anything else... but I disagree. But now we are clearer about things than we were. I can promise you there will be no trouble from the Valar. But I don’t know how to build a ship. None of the Noldor know much of your art, and... you are the greatest shipwright of Middle-earth. Perhaps the greatest shipwright of them all, or so I hear. Will you teach us?”

“And you need a shipwright of Middle-earth because Olwë won’t help you?” Lalwen put in wickedly. “You can’t bring yourself to apologise to him?” 

Fëanor did not answer her. He looked at Círdan. “Will you aid us?” 

Círdan frowned. He looked at Lalwen. “I’ve forgiven Yssion. And Olu.” He rubbed at his grey beard and looked speculatively at Fëanor. “Can you handle a boat?” 

“I have sailed a ship,” Fëanor said, remembering the stormy seas under dark clouds long ago. 

Círdan shook his head and frowned impatiently. “That’s not what I asked. If you are to build a ship, you should first know how to handle a boat. That’s how you learn respect for the Sea: you go out in your cockleshell, and know yourself small in the immensity of the ocean. And you learn the wind and waves. Then you can begin to understand what a ship is, and  _ then _ you can understand how to build one.” 

“In that case,” Fëanor said readily. “No. I’ll need to learn how to do it properly. When can we begin?”

Círdan smiled. “There is a high tide at dawn tomorrow. Meet me by the quay in Avallónë.” He smiled. “Bring something to eat. I cooked last time.” 


End file.
